13. Chapter 12
Z asha
I drive through the city with the morning light cutting sharp angles across the windshield, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on my thigh.
I should be thinking about the mission, about tonight’s operation — about the men we’re about to take down, the ground we need to cover, the pieces we’re moving into place.
But instead, my mind drifts back to her.
Mara.
Standing barefoot in the kitchen this morning, wrapped in that silk robe, her hair soft around her face, eyes bright with quiet pride as she flipped pancakes on my previously cold and untouched stove.
I hadn’t expected it.
Hadn’t expected to enjoy that quiet hour together — the way her laughter softened the sterile edges of my house, the way her warmth reached places in me I thought were long frozen.
I know I made her feel bad when I told her not to bother, that she didn’t need to cook for me.
But what else could I say?
She’s made it clear she’s only here for a year, only here to serve out an arrangement she never wanted, to bide her time until she can slip free and claim the life she really dreams of.
I remind myself of that as I pull into the underground lot, kill the engine, and step out.
Shoving these thoughts to the back of my mind, I stride into Viktor’s private office, the air thick with low conversation and the smell of black coffee.
The tall windows throw pale light across the room, cutting through the haze.
Viktor and Lev are hunched over the large table, maps and plans spread out, folders open, weapons lists scrawled across notepads.
Their heads snap up as the door clicks shut behind me.
Viktor lifts a brow, his sharp, assessing gaze sweeping over me.
“Zasha? What are you doing here this early?” he asks smoothly, folding his arms. “Shouldn’t you be with your new bride?”
Lev smirks, leaning one elbow on the table, his grin lazy and knowing.
“Man,” he drawls, “didn’t peg you for the type to run out on a pretty wife.”
I keep my face cool, my voice flat.
“You both remember this is a business arrangement?”
Viktor holds my gaze for a second longer, something flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t speak.
Lev flicks a finger toward the table. “Come on then. Let’s get back to it.”
We gather around the spread of papers, slipping easily back into rhythm.
Viktor runs through the plan, his voice low and precise.
“We’ve got three entry points — south dock, upper-level access through the old bottling line, and the alley side. Lev, you and I will take the dock. Zasha, you hit the alley flank. Clean sweep. Fast and silent.”
I nod, fingers skimming over the map, tracing the narrow alleyway, the choke points, the hidden exits.
My mind sharpens, falling into familiar patterns — angles, numbers, routes, tactics. But just beneath the surface, a flicker remains.
The image of Mara.
The way she looked at me this morning was soft, open, and maybe a little hopeful. The way my fingers had itched, just briefly, to reach out and tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
I shove the thought down, clearing my throat, forcing my focus back onto the layout in front of me. This is what matters. This is who I am.
A soldier. A bratva blade. The man who doesn’t get distracted.
And yet, as Viktor delves into the finer points like signal timings, fallback routes, and target confirmation, that flicker refuses to completely fade away.
It stubbornly lingers at the edge of my mind. Reminding me it is the one thing I can’t seem to control.
The warehouse is a maze of rusted beams, cracked concrete, and shadows that swallow sound.
My boots hit the ground with a practiced rhythm, my body humming with the familiar pulse of adrenaline.
Beside me, Viktor gives sharp hand signals — two fingers forward, one tap to the side. Lev ghosts along the outer edge, weapon raised, eyes sharp.
We move fast, silent, slicing through the dark.
The intel was good — three rivals posted near the southern loading bay, two more near the office upstairs, one lookout by the alley.
I take the flank, slipping through the narrow corridor, my knife tight in my palm.
There’s the scent of old oil, damp stone, the faint electric burn of tension hanging in the air.
A shape looms ahead — one of theirs.
I move like a whisper, cutting him down before he even has time to grunt. My move is cold, efficient, and clean. This is what I do. This is who I am.
And yet —
Her face keeps intruding.
That look she gave me when I brushed her off — part disappointment, part understanding, part something else I couldn’t name. My chest tightens sharply, fingers flexing on the handle of my blade.
Focus, Zasha.
It is a death wish to be distracted during an operation, yet her thought lingers — the scent of her, the softness, the warmth I felt against the cold edge of my world.
I catch a flicker of movement, but it’s too late. A rival lunges from the corner, brandishing a knife. I twist, but not quickly enough.
The blade slashes across my side, and a white-hot flash of pain sears through my skin and muscle, tearing a sharp breath from my throat. I slam my elbow into his face, driving him back, then drive my knife upward with brutal precision. The man collapses, already dead before he hits the ground.
I stand there for a beat, breath heaving, feeling the blood warm and wet under my shirt, the edges of my vision pulsing faintly.
“Zasha!”
Viktor’s voice snaps, sharp and pissed.
He rounds the corner, eyes flaring wide as he takes in the blood, the stiff angle of my shoulders.
“What the hell was that?” he snarls, grabbing my arm roughly. “You’re off your game. You should’ve seen that coming.”
I grit my teeth, shaking him off.
“I’ll handle it.”
Viktor tightens his jaw but steps back, shooting a glance at Lev.
Lev lifts a brow, but says nothing.
I slip away, pressing a hand to my side and feeling the sticky warmth seep through my fingers. My breath is tight and shallow, with every step a calculated measure. The only thing bouncing around in my head is the need to get home and clean it up.
The night air hits hard as I step outside, cool and sharp, carrying the faint smell of rain. I move fast, sliding into my car, gripping the wheel tight as I peel out of the lot. The wound throbs with every breath, but it’s not deep. I’ve had worse.
Still, my mind stubbornly and treacherously drifts back to her, and I curse under my breath, shoving her thought away.
By the time I pull into my garage, the adrenaline has faded, leaving only the sharp bite of pain and the heavy drag of exhaustion. I slam the car door shut, pressing one hand hard against my side, feeling the wet warmth still leaking through the ruined fabric.
My jaw tightens, and my breath hitches, but I know I’ll be fine because I’ve handled worse. Yet, each step toward the house feels heavier and slower, as if the very edge of gravity has shifted just enough to pull me down.
I push through the door, my shoulders tense, as the quiet hush of the house presses in around me. It’s dark inside, the city lights casting pale lines across the floor through the high windows.
My boots are silent on the polished floor as I cross the foyer, moving through the cool, empty rooms. I make it to the stairs, gripping the rail a little tighter than I need to, jaw clenched as a fresh throb of pain shoots through my side. The wound is surely deeper than I thought.
By the time I get to the bathroom, I’m sweating. I flick the light on, the stark glare washing over the sleek marble, the shining steel fixtures. The man in the mirror stares back at me, eyes hard with thinly controlled anger.
I tear off the shirt, the fabric clinging wetly to my skin, cursing softly under my breath as the jagged gash across my side comes fully into view.
It’s deep but certainly not fatal. I grab the first aid kit from beneath the sink, flipping it open with practiced hands, and begin laying out gauze, antiseptic, and sutures. Then I hear a noise and whip my head toward the door, Glock already in hand.
And there she is: standing frozen, eyes wide, her hand instinctively lifting to her mouth. The silk robe she wore this morning has been replaced by a soft t-shirt, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, and her face is pale with shock.
“Oh no, Zasha,” she whispers, voice thin and breathless. “What happened to you?”
For a split second, I see myself through her eyes — the blood, the brutal lines of my body, the cold, closed-off tattooed man trying to stitch himself back together in the mirror.
I open my mouth to tell her to go, to shut the door, to pretend she didn’t see, but the words don’t come. She steps forward, her expression shifting from shock to something fierce, determined, and yet gentle.
“Mara—” I start, but she cuts me off softly.
“Let me help.”
Mara expertly takes care of the wound without blinking or shaking her hands. She stitches me up with a surgeon's precision, and I am impressed by her skills and bravery.
When she finishes, we go to the living room, and she vanishes into the kitchen, moving quietly, leaving me stretched out on the couch, one arm draped over the back and the other resting gently against my bandaged side.
I watch the soft glow spill from the kitchen doorway, listen to the faint clatter of dishes, the gentle rustle of her feet on the tile.
A few minutes later, she reappears, balancing a small plate in her hands.
“Here,” she says softly, setting it down on the coffee table.
“I thought you might want something. You barely ate this morning.”
I lift a brow faintly, letting out a breath that might be the ghost of a laugh.
“You are really a mother hen, aren’t you?”
“I doubt anyone will dare call you my chick.” She smiles a little shyly and settles beside me on the couch, pulling her legs up under her. “But yes, I am. Especially when it comes to people I care about.”
The words hit deeper than they should, and I shift slightly, reaching for the plate, my fingers brushing hers briefly as I take it. Her presence feels like a balm I didn’t know I needed — soft, steady, grounding.
I eat slowly, feeling her gaze on me, feeling the quiet stretch between us.
Finally, I glance sideways at her, tilting my head slightly.
“Where’d you learn to handle blood like that?” I ask, voice rough but curious. “Most people would’ve panicked patching up a gash like this.”
Mara lets out a soft breath, wrapping her arms loosely around her knees.
“I grew up watching my father and his men come home with their own fair share of angry injuries,” she says quietly.
“When you’re born to a Cartel leader, you get used to seeing violence — even if your parents try to shelter you from it.”
Her eyes flick away for a moment, thoughtful.
“They wanted to keep me safe, keep me soft… but the truth is, you can’t live in this world without learning where the sharp edges are.”
I go still, listening, letting her voice fill the room.
Something inside my chest eases, the tight coil of tension loosening just slightly as her words slip into the silence.
I study her profile in the soft light — the delicate curve of her jaw, the faint crease between her brows, the quiet strength in the way she sits there beside me.
She’s stronger than I gave her credit for. Stronger than maybe even she knows. At some point, the plate slips from my hand onto the table, the edge of exhaustion pulling heavier over me.
Her voice hums on—soft, low, like a quiet song weaving through the dark. I allow my eyes to drift closed, even if just for a second, letting the sound of her soothe something raw and restless within me.
When I open them again, the room has gone still.
Mara is curled against my good arm, her head resting lightly on my shoulder, her breath slow and even, her dark lashes fanned across her cheeks. I stare down at her, feeling the faintest hitch in my chest.
She’s warm against me — soft, real, here.
For a moment, I let myself relax into it. No demands. No expectations. No words. Just the quiet, just the weight of her leaning into me, just the delicate thread of connection that’s woven itself tighter between us without either of us meaning to pull.
I let my head tip back against the couch, closing my eyes again, allowing myself, just this once, to enjoy the moment without pushing her away. Without reminding myself that it’s temporary. Without bracing for the part where she leaves.
For now, for tonight, I let myself enjoy her warmth.